Fallen
by frodothefair
Summary: When things between Sam and Merry turn sour, driving Sam to rashness that ends up costing him his job and reputation, Frodo is determined to set things right. But are some hatchets better left buried? Warning: slash
1. Chapter 1

Ever since he had been as tall as the carrot roots, Samwise had loved his dear Mister Frodo. But it was not until a fine afternoon in the August of his twenty-third year that he made up his mind to tell him. After having waited so long, he wanted it to be a special occasion, and even took his father's waistcoat prior to setting off. Fortune, however, was never one of Sam's good friends, for on the way to proclaim his love to Mister Frodo, he found that on that very same afternoon had already been chosen for the very same purpose by Mister Merry.

Thus, shunted aside as always, Sam turned his steps homeward to grumble and fuss. And when Frodo and Merry, handfast, called later that evening, he opened the door, polite as ever, and asked them to dinner, struggling all the while to pretend that he had not been crying for the last three-odd hours.

To be sure, Sam went out of his way to put on the best show a Gamgee could for supper and afters. As Merry contently finished off course after course, talking to no end (and not without a shade of arrogance, as if he had just emerged the winner of an auction) of his and Frodo's plans as lovers, both the other hobbits could only marvel at how he appeared almost oblivious to the nervous calm that had crept into the parlor like an uninvited guest. Sam bustled in and out, with downturned eyes, restricting his speech to offers of this or that dish; Frodo looked a trifle pale as he nursed his mutton, and responded with feeble smiles to his lover's smug leers and claps on the back. Frodo had not even been sure whether he fancied lads, but Merry had been very persuasive-- besides, Frodo knew he was getting on in years, and Merry was his cousin, so they were already well-acquainted and on better-than-good terms. Surely, he told himself, in time the new state of affairs would sit well with him. Sam's behaviour was a little troubling, it was true, but perhaps the state of things did not sit well with him, either, which was fully to be expected in such circumstances.

For his part, however, Samwise, having heard enough to feel thoroughly sick, was forced to excuse himself, and in due course Merry, the Cad of Buckland that he was, took his time alone with Frodo as seriously as the occasion could have warranted. Sam tried to bury himself under the covers, but it was of no use - in time, he found himself wishing he could cut off his own ears and burn down his own house, if it meant ridding the premises of Merry.

That night, as he lay in the darkness, the hate began—and not just for Merry, oh no—but for the Shire. Of course, he would not dream of telling a soul. What could be gained by it? What would it change? And so it was not until a year-and-a-half later, when Sam had taken advantage of the open bottles of elderberry wine on one very _merry_ Yuletide morning, that he spilled the whole thing.

They spent days clearing the wreckage out of the main hall, and weeks picking shards out of Merry's forehead. Sam was no longer allowed at Bag End, and Merry swore that he would blacken his name enough to keep him from find work in the Shire until the end of his days. It was agreed, tacitly, that what happened that Yule would never be discussed, and Frodo's initial, anguished "Sam, how could you do something so foolhardy? Why didn't you ask – I might have been yours" in time faded to an equally helpless acceptance. He had appealed to everyone he knew, exhausted all his resources, but heard little but sad clucks and "it's a bad business indeed, a bad business indeed."

In due course, he then tried to pretend as if nothing happened, and that he was happy with the way things had become between him and Merry, and that Sam's choice had been his own. After all, he did not understand why Sam could have simply told him. If he had, chances were Frodo would have broken it off with Merry, for to say that he was happy would have been stretching the truth at best. Every time he woke in the wee hours of the morning, he could not help wondering who the strange hobbit sharing his bed was, and why it seemed so unnatural that the there should be words to describe what had just transpired between them—or why he felt such a terrific urge to flee from the bed at times as if the walls were closing in on him. That every passing embrace grew more stifling could not be denied. It was Merry, too, who more often did most of the wanting when they were together. His own reluctance, of course, could not have been guilt, for he knew, logically, that he could not have been at fault for Sam's exile. And yet—

To flee... But where to? Where had Sam gone, when he fled on New Year's morning? A traveler or two claimed to have seen him on the road to Bree, but most in the Shire knew better than to trust such tales.

Bree?—he could not quite remember how the idea had wandered into his head, and at first the very thought of searching for Sam seemed futile, if not ridiculous. Yet a part of him knew that his leaving was long overdue, and that it would be a matter of time, whether it was a conscious choice or the result of another humiliation in the bed that had become so odious to him, before he snuck from his room like a shadow, packed his travel satchel, and made off before the first cock had crowed, on the back of a passing farmer's wagon.

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His feet dangling from the edge, Frodo watched the interminable progress of the sun across the zenith, and wondered why the cart, pulled by a team of sleepy mules, did not seem to be moving at all. They arrived in Bree by the second night. The Prancing Pony loomed, tall and forbidding and clothed in darkness. It being late, most of the guests had retired to their beds, or littered the floor with their bodies.

Fortunately, Butterbur was not one to refuse even the latest of arrivals, particularly if the visitor was a halfling. Promptly, the attendants discovered an empty room in the hobbit quarters, and since the guest was far too tired to act discerning, a small yet merry fire was soon crackling in the hearth as he sat down to a late supper.

The servant, a hobbit named Ned, came with pillows and ale, and, leaning in close as he poured, inquired whether the guest "fancied a bit o' comfort," and if so, male or female. When Frodo tried to refuse, he excused himself with a knowing wink.

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For his part, Sam had not cried. Usually, he would weep over every blighted blossom and the Gaffer even took to calling him a lilly. This time, however, no tears came. By confessing, he had condemned himself, and decided to do the only sensible thing he _could_ do—he did indeed leave for Bree. Far away, where he knew nobody and nobody knew him, he hoped to recover employment and dignity.

At first, he thought to be a ditch digger, but turned out to be slower than the others because the shovel was too big for him. Then, after a week or so of sleeping in ditches and haylofts, he managed to find another occupation, but it was in a line of work where respect was much harder to come by.

It was one of those nights when his bum was sore, his muscles ached, and his cock was too exhausted to rise amymore. He was sick of the sex, sick of being told what to do, and almost howled out loud when Ned shook him awake for what seemed like the twentieth time in a row to inform him that he had a client. But by Bullroarer it beat being in the same land as that damned Brandybuck, he thought as he fumbled his way out of bed with a grunt and still a might groggy, tottering down the hall in the direction Ned's none-too-gentle push had aimed him.

Nudging the door, he peeked inside the guestroom, and saw a dark-haired hobbit, still dressed in travellers' clothes, tending the dying coals. A cup of ale and a half-finished pigeon-pie stood at his elbow. It was too dark to see the master's face.

He entered. There was a second chair by the hearth, and Sam sat down, silent. Normally, he would have picked up the his beloved's scent anywhere, but the heavy oak of the tables, the roadside dust, and the smoke and cheap ale had masked even the unmistakable aroma - of ink, pressed linen, and lily-of-the-valley soaps - that was the essence of Frodo.

The Baggins had guessed, correctly, that the valet had decided the visitor indeed preferred lads, but was ashamed to admit it. Ah well—no more than a misunderstanding, he said to himself, easily corrected. In truth, he really was far too tired, and had almost made up his mind to send the rent boy away with his apologies, but as the lad sat down – a dirty, bedragged-looking thing that looked to be falling off its feet from fatigue – Frodo felt almost too guilty to make him get up again. Instead, he took a moment to study the newcomer. He had never sought the services of a rent boy before, and was, understandably (and for lack of a better word)—curious.

The lad was gaunt, and of a stature that seemed prematurely bent with weariness and shame; long strands of dull, white-blond hair framed a face both pale and drawn, with sunken eyes.

Indeed, Sam's hair had grown out, and each morning they would pull the curls out with hot irons to make it even longer. They even bleached the sun out of his hair, once dark-gold. The rent boys were to look like creatures of the night, mysterious and desirable, and his red lips, powdered skin, and thick dark eyeliner kept even his master from recognizing the hobbit who stood before him.

Frodo wondered what could drive a hobbit to such a life. He wanted to ask, but did not dare.

"I—didn't want anything," he finally said. "I'm sorry to have troubled you. The servant must have misunderstood—"

He had spoken... He had spoken, and the world Samwise thought he knew came tumbling down. His heart all but forced its way up his throat, and his lungs froze solid. His stomach knotted, and his fingers trembled. It was Mister Frodo.

Uncertain of what to say, and for once thankful that a thick coat of paint covered his cheeks, Sam turned away, as if to clear the dishes from the table—for the rent boys and service lasses were in charge of the inn's upkeep when there was no other work to be done.

"Stay a while, though, since you've come."

Sam kept his head down, wary of meeting eyes with his master. It was a meeting of two souls of entirely different stock, and therefore awkward. No response came, and Frodo found himself wondering whether the lad had even understood him.

"What is your name, at least?"

Sam stuck his tongue out and silently screamed with a dip of his head before turning over his shoulder to answer—and pausing. He needed a name... and quickly.

"I'se whatever you decide to call me."

Frodo sighed, pressing his lips. He should have known that this was what the lad had been taught to reply.

"Let's have a closer look at you, then." Indeed, it was difficult to get a true sense of the features that seemed to be playing hide-and-seek with him amid the dancing shadows, and behind loose strands of hair - so artificial and wiglike in their whiteness.

Sam shuffled his feet as he put down an empty cup, but dared not turn. "So y'wanna go then?" he asked, reaching for his belt. He assumed that by "look" Frodo meant the full look. A look in the nude, that is.

"No, your face." Frodo smiled. "I cannot very well decide what your name is to be if I cannot see your face, now can I? And I know many a hobbit looks like his name."

He lit the candle, but it burned badly, for the room was humid and cold.

Sam could not help but smile to himself before he turned around. Mister Frodo, always so clever. He hoped that he looked entirely different, and in truth, he did. The hair and makeup alone did not make him a clone of the other night lads – over the past months, he had gained a manly figure, and lost much of his puppy fat. Even his voice had deepened.

But Sam was not mistaken – Frodo _was_ clever, though not always inclined to trust an initial hunches. As the lad turned, he did discern something familiar in the face, and in the voice, too, though both seemed broken and hardened by grief - like birches bent double in a storm and frozen that way under a thin layer of ice.

He beckoned to the lad, knowing now he would obey as he was trained.

"Tell me about yourself."

Sam was not sure whether to lie, but he certainly did not want to give anything away, for if he slipped up, all hope of preserving the world he worked so built up so meticulously for himself would be lost. He decided to be blunt.

"I 'ave sex with lads and lasses for pay—What do you want me to be?"

Frodo almost wanted to say, "I can see that," but stopped himself, for the lad had approached him, smiling, and stood perhaps a little too close, breathing emphatically against his lips. For Sam knew, right then, that he could take all the advantage he wanted. He was no longer Samwise Gamgee. He had lost that name a long time ago.

Frightened, Frodo backed away a step. Again, he felt a sense, with the bottom of his spine, of something overwhelmingly familiar, a suspicion - half a suspicion, perhaps no more than a shade of suspicion— No.

"I said I did not want anything." And really, he didn't—the dank room seemed hardly the place for a romantic romp, particularly on such a night.

"I just want to—talk."

"I don't do talk jobs." He smirked—"I'm bad company." Sam laughed, and stepped away.

It seemed like a moot point, so Frodo let the subject drop. Sinking back into his chair, he sliced a piece of cheese from the lump on the table.

"Here. Are you hungry?"

_I'll wager you are. I'll wager nobody feeds your kind decently. Your kind--- no. What a loathsome thing to say. _

"Eat?" Sam smiled, sideways. "As'f I'ave time to eat. Look, ef you don't want any... If you'll excuse me… There 'as to be someone here who does."

The rueful smile, screwed upon his lips after the fashion of a mask, hid his disappointment well. So Frodo did not want to have sex with him. He should known. He should have known all along.

Frodo did not look at him. He turned around and started to cut the remaining cheese into neat, narrow slices. "Alright, I suppose I'll talk then, if you do not feel inclined. I came through looking for someone, actually, and perhaps you can give me a hint as to his whereabouts."

He paused, noticing that the lad was looking away and at the door, as if plotting his escape again.

"You see a great many people, do you not?.. It is a lad named Sam Gamgee, and a wonderful lad at that. Long sandy curls, strong gardener's hands, sturdy." Frodo kept his head down, pretending to be busy with the vittles, talking quickly, yet glanced up now and again, when he was reasonably sure that the lad was not looking, to watch his reaction, and his voice had, perhaps unwittingly, changed timbres, as if savouring a pleasant memory of a long-ago spring. "He may have come through here around Yule—Have you seen him?"

"Sounds like a puff t'me," said Sam quickly. "And no, I 'aven't. Good evenin' to you. My room number is number three... If ye're stayin' awhile and change your mind."

"No... Don't go, please. I'm lonely... Look... I said I wanted to talk, and I meant it."

"You'll 'ave to talk to Ned, 'e manages my..." Sam stopped short. Clearly, something was amiss, and, as much as he would have liked, the Gamgee could not leave his master in an hour of need. Obeying, he sat down, his back turned.

Sighing - for sex, by virtue of nature or nurture, seemed to be the only currency this lad understood - Frodo got up, happy, at least that the boy had stayed, and proceeding towards him, and wrapped his arms against his waist, and pulled him up from the chair until their hips met. He did not particularly want it even then, and his motions were so quick that they seemed almost mechanical, but once he paused, even he was surprised at the pleasant, scarcely-perceptible rush up his spine, and the breath he was suddenly forced to draw. He lowered his eyelids, speaking to the other hobbit's collarbone.

"But… On second thought… We can do both..."

Something about the presence of another was oddly comforting. The lad smelled of ale and dirty beds - as did everything at this inn - but it was a good smell.

"It's just--- I need to first warm up to it... I cannot--- not with a perfect stranger."

"A stranger?" Sam laughed and rocked his hips a little closer, grinding their groins together a little harder. "Looks like you'll 'ave to get t'know me better then..." Rubbing his flaccid cock against Frodo's inner thigh, he twisted his thin lips into a smile...a half-grin that could only have belonged to The One and Only Samwise.

"No--No---Not that way..." Frodo whispered, his face pressed against the side of the other hobbit's head, his nose buried amid flaxen locks. "I meant—" He was starting to regret approaching the lad at all. He had almost begun to forget how his liaison with Merry had made the very thought of touching another loathsome, and how he had questioned (far too many times, indeed) whether anything above common lust bound them together—or, more accurately, Merry to him.

But after struggling for a bit and fell silent, as always. Every time it ended that way.

"Alright..."

"You meant that, pretty one?" Sam stroked the pale face, as white as his own "mask." The powder covering Sam's cheeks seemed to glow at that moment, and his eyes were warm. "No one's pressurin' you." –Though a furtive hand rubbing circles against Frodo's sack said otherwise.

"I--- I---" He did feel bad for making the lad come, and this was his only livelihood. "I could do it, but I don't like sex much, to tell the truth," he finally managed. He didn't, too. The word itself had come to carry a bitter connotation.

"A'right. I'll make an exception... Jus' this once. Come along. If you want to talk, we'll talk." For he too, had given in. It was not in his nature to displease a master—particularly this one.

Taking Frodo by the hand, he led him down the tall, wooden hallway. Slivers of orange light from dying fireplaces led the way, outlining the doorframes, though Sam knew all passages well enough to navigate with his eyes closed.

"Y'can sit on the bed, an' I'll sit on the chair, if that'll suit you?"

They had arrived at Number Three, and Sam stopped just short of the door, handing Frodo the key.

"S'all you, Master." He bowed low enough to hide his face, for his trademark 'Master' was sure to give him away otherwise.

In vain. For that is when Frodo knew – of course he did! He'd suspected it all it all along, really. But one particularly telltale word from Sam's lips was more than enough to chase away all doubt.

He passed inside, however, and not an eyebrow moved on the fair hobbit's face; he knew, but he made up his mind to wait for just the right moment to reveal it. Perhaps he would wait until he was better able to hide his pity, for that would have only humiliated the lad. He hid his eyes as he lay on the bed.

"Are you from Bree?" He finally asked the rent boy. "You don't sound it."

Sam had seated himself quite comfortably in the chair by the nightstand, and tipped back a shot of strong Somethingorother that he had left there this afternoon.

"Where d'you want me to be from?" He smirked, glad to have an opportunity for a bit of tongue-in-cheek as long as he had the excuse of "serving."

It was not his place to ask questions, Sam knew, but he was curious to know to what lengths Frodo would go to hide his identity, or if he would at all; he, too, had decided to wait and see if this game they were playing would lead to the asking of names and exchanging of further personal information.

"Well, you don't sound like you're from Bree."

Usually, Sam lied easily, and quite convincingly at that, but no matter how he turned it, deceiving Mister Frodo did not feel right, even if he _was_ an entirely different hobbit now.

"No, sir," he said at last. "Not from Bree, tho' I 'ave lived 'ere for some time now."

_Why, Sam... Why? Is it because of the choice I made? Because of Merry? Well, if it is, I am sorry, sorry a thousand times over... I didn't know... I didn't think._ But he voiced none of what he was thinking and kept probing, fearful that if he paused, his voice would start to waver.

"I live in Hobbiton, myself, though I am not from there, either. I was born in Buckland, born and bred… How long have you lived here, then?"

Oh, good. By golly, this was turning into quite the fancy game of twenty questions. Sam rolled his eyes as he looked at the floor, hoping the none-too-respectful gesture would escape his Master's notice. He liked his long, blonde tresses... They worked well as a veil.

"Long as I can remember..."

_Long enough, anyways. As long as this life will allow me to remember. I've forgotten the green of the grass, the fresh water and the warm, baked bread. I recall neither the birds, nor the hills, nor the brightness of Bag-End's freshly painted door, nor my sisters' smiles. No. I'm this—this thing now. This creature of the night. This serving lad. This...rent boy._

"How did you come to this?"

"How does one come to anythin'? It finds you, doesnt it? I needed work, and I wasn' qualified fer much else. It isn't as'f I didn' try. This was the last thing I wanted. I jus' needed a place to stay, s'all, and Master Ned took me in... I didn' have no money or anythin' to barter... There was already a dishwasher." He laughed ruefully. "Yeah. Tha's how." He set down his cup, and smiled tenderly. "And I s'pose tha's how it's always gonna be."

"Plus," he added, with a smirk, "I like the taste of man."

He made sure to lick his lips for dramatic effect, and raised an eyebrow. In truth, he didn't – it was far too salty and he often had to keep from visibly gagging when he swallowed – but the thought of Frodo's cum on his lips made his belly quiver in ways it had not for a very long time.

Frodo lay silent, looking at the lad who was once his servant and squinting as he searched for a trace of something he could cling onto to make Sam's new persona more real – something reminiscent of the days they had spent together. That this was indeed Sam—that this was his once-companion who had fallen so low—lingered stubbornly beyond the reach of comprehension. Perhaps he did not want to comprehend it, and vainly tried to convince himself that his conscience was false—that everything he had thus far concluded was wrong, and it was all just a terrible coincidence. How many hobbits were there in the Shire, after all? And how many in Bree? Some were bound to resemble others. Some were probably even bound to say "Master" in the exact same tone have the same timbre of voice.

Uncomfortable seeing Frodo at a loss for words, Sam mustered some courage and took it upon himself to ask the next question.

"Anythin' else you'd fancy t'know?"

"Do you have any kinfolk?"

"I believe I died in their 'earts a long time ago... So in return, they're dead t' me. Fair trade? I think so... But I sleep with people for a livin'... That makes me too low to 'ave an opinion...doesn' it?" He almost laughed, knowing that to Frodo he must have seemed like the scum of the earth right then.

"What happened?"

"With my family? I left 'em to find work..." There was truth in that. Merry had made it impossible for Sam to get work in the Shire. He had promised. "They didn' appreciate that too much, methinks."

"You said you had lived in Bree for as long as you can remember. Is your kin in Bree too, then?" _Because you would not have had to go far if they lived in Bree, I should think, and in that case why leave at all? _"Or elsewhere?" he added emphatically.

"Elsewhere," Sam retorted, smiling… Wanting to come over to the bed and warm him up. He pushed the loose hair from his face, and batted his eyes, outlined in heavy, dark ochre. "And for the record, yes, I've always taken to lads. Lasses were never manly enough to satisfy me." He smiled and winked. "They wouldn' take it deep enough. They cry. Good lads jus' grunt."

"I had a male lover, quite recently," Frodo said. He had rolled over and was watching the shadows dance across the ceiling. "But that's done with. He does not know it yet. I had a lass or two when I was younger, but we mostly kissed under apple trees. Neither lads nor lasses seem take to bookish lads like me, though… Not my destiny, I suppose."

"Pr'aps you need ta fine someone who likes the bookish type, is all," said Sam. "You don' like sex? I can see it, too. Your boyfriend was too needy, wasn' he? He didn' know what you needed...Jus' took care of himself? Selfish..."

The words, which the other lad's lips had molded so sweetly, drew forth a gentle stirring in Frodo's breast and groin again, just like when they had embraced. He beckoned. "I—suppose… Come. Sit here. With me."

_Come and cum_, _Mister Frodo,_ Sam thought._ I'd do it for you, too. I'd never cum again in my life-- if only you knew..._

He sat as he was told, hardly close enough to put Frodo off, yet not too far for his own liking. He remembered that there had always been something about the slender hobbit's movements that made plain his need for personal space, yet this time their knees touched, just slightly. Emboldened, Sam reach to fiddle with the hem of Frodo's pants.

"You look tired... I could rub ya? Your feet. Did you walk?"

"No, I rode."

An even bigger smile spread across Sam's face. "Ah, so you are sore... Elsewhere."

"Yes."

Sam could not help but giggle. "You're fun."

"You can rub my back."

A short nod, and Sam was up, searching his drawers for a bottle of oil—"May I take your shirt, sir?"

"Of course—Innocent, aren't I?" Frodo chuckled. "I'm over thirty, though… So very old."

"You don' say." Sam smiled knowingly, peeling off Frodo's undershirt, and tugging his breeches down his hips. The cloth was minutely spun and of good quality—as was everything of Frodo's—and Samwise could scarcely help the shiver that stole across his shoulders at the sight of that milky-white flesh. "I'm too young to do this legally. People seem to fin' that erotic."

_I don't think you should be doing this at all, sweet one._ Frodo thought as slick hands pushed him down, manhandling and caressing all at once. Indeed, every rib and curve Sam had hitherto known with only his eyes, his fingers now explored freely, finding each freckle as if he knew the pale hobbit's back better than his own._ You're a handsome lad. You could get plenty of lads either way, and you seem like a smart one, too._ Yet—"You're a handsome lad," were Frodo's only words.

"'S this silly makeup," Sam said modestly—a tone most uncharacteristic of the guise he had worn all night. "They make us all do it, you know. Sometimes, I c'n hardly tell me own friends apart."

A warm tingle returned to Frodo's sore back, and loosened his demeanour a touch. He sighed and smiled, resting his head on his forearms, and the soft prickle of self-consciousness that still rushed through him from time to time made the affair all the more pleasant.

Sam's knuckles pushed the muscle, soothing and working away the tightness. "Your skin is smooth..." he returned—wondering what it would be like to bring his tongue to lick down that spine, and taste unsoiled flesh.

"I almost wish you were mine. Not just for one night, but for--- longer," Frodo said. "That's why I don't want to have sex with you. Because come morning, I will be on my way, looking for the friend I told you about. We'll never see one another again."

"Whyevar're you lookin' for 'im, anyway? An' I'm a rent boy, not a slave, kin' sir." He laughed, and kissed Frodo's curls on a whim.

"He left the Shire a few months ago, and no one has heard from him since. We're all worried about him—No, you'd be free to go." _And there's little difference, really._

Sam laughed, "Really. 'Tis a tempting offer, 'T really is… 'Specially since I'd pay to have sex with _you_." He giggled and rubbed softer, closer to his master's behind. "Y'r quite lovely."

"So you say... But with negotiable affection, one never knows whom to believe."

"'F tha's the way y'think..."

"Everyone says I'm lovely," he hurried to explain. "Admired by all, loved by none—my life's story."

"I think—if you can make the moments with your client the best they've ever had, then you've accomplished somethin'. It's self-gratifyin', I know it is. But—I think you'd fit in well here. I would love you." He tried to say it as if it was nothing, but his words were heavy and his voice was thick with truth and lust.

"I can't do that," said Frodo.

"Have you ever been in love?" he asked after a moment of silence.

Rentboys, he supposed, were not allowed - could not allow themselves. To think - falling in love, only to part come morning.

"Aye. Unfortunately." The hairs on Sam's spine bristled, his voice hardening as he found himself backing away a bit, and concentrating, once more, on his rubbing.

"Oh… I am beginning to think there was someone I, too, have loved… And love still, but never admitted it. I may have ruined a life because of it… It may be too late… It probably _is_ too late."

"Mayhap. But we can't control such thin's, sometimes." _Should a bed warmer be giving a gentleman advice?_ he asked himself. _No—certainly not._ And so he fell silent again, rubbing with a casual air.

"I think we must stop this charade," he said. "What time is it? Shall I pay you now?"

"You owe me nothing, Mister Fro--"

_SHITTTT!_ His mind screamed at him. He had slipped—but he had known all along that he would.

"I _mean_—Alright. Thank you for your time—" he scrambled backwards from the bed and to the door, "I'll leave ya to dress--I'll be outside, then--"

The other hobbit regarded him with a grave air over his shoulder, turned over, and smiled.

"Did you hear what I said, Sam?" He smiled up at him—disarmingly, pulling his watch, a fine model of Dwarven make, from a pocket.

Sam's eyes went as big as saucers. His mouth fell slack.

"Wh—what'd you call me?"

"I said the game is over, Sam. Masks off."

"F—it's not what you think, Mister Fr—"

_Samwise, you fool!..._ _To think you could trick your smart Mister Frodo._

"I guessed right. It's midnight. And the masks always come off at midnight."

Sam had not heard—he sank to the floor where he stood, his ears as red as his lips—sheepish and apologetic, yet surprisingly unashamed. As if he'd been expecting it all along. As if he'd accepted it—welcomed it, even, that he did not have to pretend anymore.

"I'm...sorry" he mustered at last. "There wasn' anythin' else…"

A little ruefully, Frodo sat up. It was a relief, certainly, though he had enjoyed the game, and now that it was over, an awkward silence fell. He avoided Sam's eyes—as if the silent, pitying, reproachful 'Sam, how could you?' would make things even worse than they already were.

"Mister Merry made it impossible!" Sam whined. He felt ill, and he knew he needed to get Frodo to leave. He had a new life now. He had worked too hard for it.

"I know. Let's not talk about it."

"You should go." His flattened hair and face powder felt ridiculous now, and his tried to wipe it off, but only succeeded in smearing.

"I know. I just wanted..."

"No. Don'. I can't."

"It's my fault... I'm sorry... What's happened to you... I suppose you did the best you could—"

"--No! Not now. Don' talk to me 'bout such thins. The Shire still hates me. I can't go back... And I can't be in love. I's my fault for lovin' you in the first place. "

"I know, Sam... I know."

"I coulda done much better. I coulda kept my dirty trap shut." It was all he could do to keep himself from making an apologetic joke about how as a result he could not afford _not_ to keep his dirty trap open, but held his tongue.

The Baggins drew a breath, lowering his head, and his back was motionless for a moment. Then shook… Just a little. He bit the pillow, hoping that if only he pushed it hard enough against his face, he would smother the sobs that choked his throat.

"You never shoulda known… I'm sorry to be such a... Such a... Bother." No answer followed, and he went on. "You came all the way out 'ere for me—I understand... And look what you got! A damned rent lad—a serving boy. Not much more than what left, am I?"

He tried again to wipe some of the lipstick from his face with the back of his hand. "This is humiliatin', Mister Frodo. I'm... I'm sorry y'had ta see this."

By then, Frodo had ceased to pretend that he was not weeping – shamefully, dryly, soundlessly, helplessly—like a child who had lost his family at the market.

Not knowing what else to do—unsure whether there was anything he could do—Sam pressed his chest to Frodo's back and wrapped his arms close around him. His breaths were heavy, for he, too, was fighting tears.

"I love you," Sam whispered, and pulled away, wiping the oil from his chest and turning for the door.

"Don't—"

"I'll have ta charge you, then."

But Samwise smiled fondly as he said it, and retraced his steps, climbing gratefully under his meager covers and tucking a generous portion around his master. They lay in the dark, listening to one another's breathing. He stroked Frodo's back.

Free of inhibition – the tears had long taken care of that – Frodo only wanted to tell him that he did not want it to be this way, that he wished he could leave in the morning and take Sam with him from that terrible place. Of all things, he had not envisioned this—this was not what he had wanted for his best friend and beloved (however late he had recognized the latter fact.) Yet to ask Sam to leave his life behind, even if for his own sake, was not his place.

"When d'ya know it was me?"

"When you said 'Master.'"

"Fuck…" Sam swore—and laughed. The days in Bree had hardened him some. "An' I knew it, too."

"Oh, Sam. I love you too... By the way."

"You don'!" He smiled and patted him. "You just don' know anyone who will care for you as I do. You're confusin' that with love… Why, you don' even know me." He chuckled. "I'se a sex boy now."

Frodo sighed, and decided not to argue. "Still," he mused, "It may just be a fantasy, but it's one I'd like to keep. I wish we could… Be together. I know perfectly well, of course--"

"—There isn'a any way in the world that we could, Mister Frodo... I live 'ere an' sell myself. You live there—with _'im_." There had been no trace of bitterness in his voice until that moment, but he masked it with a cough. Now was not the time for angry passion.

But Frodo's gaze simmered in defiance. _Not now, _he thought. Not after what they had shared. He did not like to be reminded. "I _don't_—not anymore! I do not know why I ever did in the first place, and by my word, and I ever sorry about it. I will not go back to him—I'd die before I do. I want you, not him. I would have thought you would have seen that by now. And, well—I wish you weren't… Weren't—_that_… Sam… Listen, I could take you from this place... We could go back. Or not go back. We would make living, somehow… Why—_here_, even…"

"You'd hate it," said Sam shortly. "It's dirty and low class. You've lived yer whole life in beautiful places. You'd tire in a week, and your fat ugly Samwise won't be enough to keep ya. You'd leave."

"It would manage— I simply do not want you doing this. It's—beneath you."

"Nothin's beneath me"-- he mocked Merry and looked away quickly.

"You are worth so much more than you know." _Than you will ever know_. Of course, he knew better than to expect those words to be believed.

Yet to his surprise Sam smiled and sat up, clasping Frodo's hands tightly between his own. "Beech Hollow," he said suddenly and almost unwillingly. _He won' be happy,_ Sam chuckled to himself—at his own and at Merry's misfortune, for at that moment, when he had decided he would turn himself over to fate and what he thought would lead to Frodo's eventual and inevitable unhappiness, he could not help but feel an odd kinship with his rival. "And no—but I'll believe you anyhow… Anyways, there were posters up fer a place goin' up fer sale in Beech Hollow. We me to take a look tomorrow?"

Resigned, he had wrapped Frodo in a warm embrace. Their heads shared a pillow, curls mingling, and one might have thought they were connected by the hair.

"Yes. Tomorrow is as good a time as any. I'll stay." But he'd suspected, nay—known all along that he would.


	2. Chapter 2

The sunlight that woke Frodo the next morning was a boring, unwelcome sort of light. Like sickly, watered-down whitewash, it spread across the dirty walls of Guestroom Number Three of the Prancing Pony, and when he saw it, he knew he had no more desire to sleep. Crying one's self to sleep has that effect at times; he felt as if he had been slapped awake. Propping himself up on his elbows, he sat and looked about him. He saw that he lay under what seemed like a discarded pony blanket, that there was a rickety night table with a pitcher and a mug, and to the left was a window with what seemed like oilpaper for glass. His eyes fell on the hobbit beside him, and for a moment found that he could not place him.

He was pale and sickly, as everything in that room seemed to be at that hour, and the makeup lay caked on Sam's cheeks like a death-mask. The lips, a deep red, stood out like a dark, clotted wound against the pallor. The hair lay in clumps, oily and stringy; it seemed to have grown so thin by dint of repeated bleaching and ironing that Frodo could see the outline of the skull beneath it. The overall ghostly appearance was no surprise, either, though the Baggins could not have known it. The rent-boys were crafted for night purposes, and looked out of place in the daytime - like so many undead. That is why they slept all day, generally, and were not woken until four o'clock, when the early dinner guests commonly began to arrive.

Struck with a sudden pain that was almost physical at the sight of the thinning locks, however, Frodo reached to brush a strand of hair from the other hobbit's forehead. With an edge of the dirty sheet, he tried to wipe away some of the white powder, but the stuff had crusted over, and clung stubbornly in lumps.

He wanted to--- do something, to touch or kiss him, like in the fairytales, though he knew better than to believe such things. If nothing else, he was not pure. Who was he to think himself capable of miracle-work?

And yet he had never enjoyed himself in Merry's bed; he had not once cum in his remembrance, and he had succumbed only out of boredom and despair.

Sam shifted and groaned. There had been a tad too much moving beside him on the bed – the sort he was not used to at such an hour.

"Wha—"

"I'm—sorry..."

"Oh goodness. Frodo. It's just you. Uh, er. I mean, Mister… Frodo," Sam added hastily. Wiping the dark ochre from around his eyes with his thumbs, he sat up. "What time is it?"

The watch lay ticking peacefully where Frodo had left it the night before.

"It's half-past nine."

"SHIT—I went to sleep two hours ago!" Huffing and falling back, he pulled the dirty pillow over his head. "Ned's gonna slaughter me-e-e."

"Two hours?..." Frodo blinked. "But I thought—I thought we'd fallen asleep together a little after midni-… Oh…"

Of course Sam could not have remained sleeping... A rent boy would have known better than that. Sam might have waited until he fell asleep and gone-- yes, that must have been it. Frodo bit his lip, and looked at the spot where the floorboards met the wall.

Sam sighed.

"I think you should go back to Merry, Mr. Frodo." He knew that he could not both do his job and remain Frodo's friend. Frodo was a distraction. A peace of heart and life that he was not allowed, a pleasure he had forsaken long ago. And even if they did settle together like he offered the night before, Frodo would naturally want him to quit work, and how would they make a living then, when the money Frodo had brought ran out? Bree was already suffering of a case of all the economic niches being filled, and, despite best intentions, they would only end up right back where they began in a matter of months. Daylight had placed things in a much more sobering light.

"It isn't like it was, sir. I'm not even... Me. The others around here call me Hal." He chuckled. "I stole my brother's nick name..."

"I'm not going back to Merry." Frodo raised his eyes. They were cold.

Sam looked at him, and could not help thinking how ridiculously out of place he looked – how comical, almost – huddling against the cold in his fine-spun undershirt under the coarse worsted covers. But mostly it was the sliver of translucent skin that the slit down the front of the shirt exposed ever so slightly, with the fine blue veins far too close to the surface, that now irritated him so.

"If you came here to save me, I'm afraid you are a little too late. I'm a little too far gone. Go back to Merry."

The last infuriated him. To mention his shameful liaison with Merry not once, but twice – to parade it before him – it was not to be borne. Frodo sat up, drawing the blanket closer about him with a sharp pull.

"Look... You say there is nothing more to be done, but there is, Sam! There _is_. It was by choice that you had taken up this profession, and you can choose to forsake it! You can come back with me to the Shire and tend the gardens like you always have. I don't understand why you cannot—you can't possibly—you can't possibly _like_ it!"

"Would you like it, sir?"

"Not for the Shire."

"Then there's your answer."

Months of being bludgeoned both with word and anything else within reach had hardened him; sweet Samwise was all snark and sass now.

"Then leave. What is keeping you?"

Not to be outdone, Frodo had sat up even straighter, hoping it would lend force to his conviction. He was a Baggins, after all, and stubborn when necessary, and at times even when less-than-necessary, if one were to listen to Bilbo's version of the truth. In this instance, especially, Sam presented both a pitiful case and a challenge. For the moment, it was more than enough.

"Merry. That's what's keepin' me."

Frodo drew breath.

"Listen. Merry... Merry can keep all the Shire from hiring you, but he cannot keep me."

He was not sure why he had said it - he wasn't even sure whether it was true. But Sam turned over and pulled the covers over his head.

"If you loved me, you wouldn't have let this happen."

"I—"

Though at heart Frodo's spirit was hardly an honest-to-goodness belligerent one, what had been annoyance swelled to an all-out rage in half a moment. Indeed, by then it was his pride, far more than any feeling of compassion - or love, for that matter - that rooted him to the spot – that made him want to swear under his breath that he would drag that caddish Sam out of that thrice-accursed inn even if it cost them both their lives, and by the hair if necessary. The truth was, too, that he was ashamed, and had nothing to say for himself. He was ashamed, and did not like to be reminded of his guilt.

Sam was right. It he had really had any power over Merry, he would not have succumbed in the first place. But he had wavered when the time was most decisive; he had doubted both Sam's heart and his own. Were not Sam's words - that if he had loved him, he would not have let it happen – his just punishment? What was the use of stubbornness _now_ - alas, in far too wrong a quarter, and far too late for his pluck to be of any use?

"No—that isn't how it is—I—I—didn't know you loved me until that day, I mean, I couldn't be sure—and once it was revealed, I—I do not know... It was all so..."

They sounded ridiculous—stupid, this deluge of words spilling from his lips, and in such woeful disarray, too.

"It's my fault that you are now in this mess, Sam, I know, and by Valar it is now my duty to get you out—I didn't—I thought I—_Sam_!"

"No matter. S' over and done with, sir..." He closed his eyes, drawing a thick veil between himself and the world like he had practiced so many times before. It had come to be a useful skill in his line of work. "It's not your job, and I'm not your rent lad no more. Besides, you're bad for business. You ought to leave. S' really no use."

"I most certainly will _not_ leave. And I will not leave you here... And yes, I intend to be _very_ bad for business. I will not let you do this 'job' of yours any longer—this job should not even exist!"

The words fell flat, however, as if they had not been heard. He tried again.

"Sam... Look... I know I'm responsible for this. I do not ask for forgiveness. I ask for a chance to fix things for you. It's only right. You cannot deny that it's only fair."

The Gamgee gnashed his teeth. There seemed to be no silencing that Baggins. Maybe if he kept quiet, Frodo would talk himself out. At any rate, talking would only encourage things. Yes. He would keep quiet. Yet, after a moment or two, despite what he had resolved, he knew there remained something about Frodo that made him, well – _Frodo_, and forced Sam to grit his teeth and decide that he would make and exception and try and explain things one the last time.

"I don't want to fix anything," he said. "I lost my virginity to some man with a beard so huge I couldna even see his face. He smelled of unkempt animals and strange liquor the likes of which I'd never smelt before. After that, Frodo... I knew there was no going back. I'm not ashamed of it neither. There's no more room for what once was. I have only room enough for hate in my heart for that... that... wretched Brandybuck."

Frodo heard him in silence. 'You're wrong—' he fought the urge to bellow at first, but when he heard of the man with the beard and of the animals and strange liquor, he could not help but double over, and after a few seconds began to laugh.

"I'm glad you think et's funny, Mr. I-was-pampered-in-the-ass-by-a-Brandybuck-sir."

The words had had a scalding effect. Forced to stop short and rally his forces, for he wanted more than ever, right then, to drag Sam out of bed and slam him against the wall hard enough to draw blood. There was no denying that the Gamgee knew how to fight dirty.

"I—look—That was a mistake, Sam. A mistake. We've both made mistakes."

"I made no mistakes." The Gamgee's eyes grew wild and he bore his teeth. "I did what I needed to do when I needed to do it. And I'd do it again. If it were up to me, I'd have killed 'em. He's lucky you were in the room at all!"

"You said you loved me."

"Yes, Mr. Frodo. I loved you."

There was a silence.

"I—I don't understand why all the sad stories are about unrequited love!" Frodo snapped at last, throwing the covers aside and standing. "It's far worse being pulled in different directions and feeling so damn guilty because other hobbits first say nothing for months and then go bashing each others' heads in over you! Fine, I had been wrong, I confess it. But I'm not the villain here—"

"Oh, quit readin' and start living, you bookish old toad! Are you deaf—get out!"

An ale mug came crashing down inches from Frodo's toes. The mention of books had been too much. Well-read as he was, sometimes Frodo was so… for lack of a better word—_stupid_. By then, Sam would have done whatever it took to be rid of him.

The Baggins did not flinch, however, even though the desire to strike Sam, to do something—anything—physical to him became overwhelming. Both were standing now, eye to eye, almost as close as they had stood the night before when Sam had called Frodo "pretty one" and took his liberties with him.

"Fine, then. If I go, I take you with me. Even if I have to drag you by the hair."

"Touch my hair and you'll wish you'd stayed in bed with Merry to be used as a sex slave for the rest of your miserable life in the Shire!"

"Listen. I have Merry in the palm of my hand. If you really think he can keep _me_ from hiring you, it's ridiculous. What is Merry? He's from Buckland—a stranger, an intruder. A buffoon. Me—I'm from Buckland too, but at least I'm a Baggins--"

He knew, of course, that his argument was a wildly stilted view of the way things were, but for the moment it was sound enough, and would have to do. And if his anger were to last all the way to the Shire (an event far from unlikely from the way things looked), he was almost convinced that he really would have no trouble throwing Merry out of Bagend by the scruff of the neck.

"A _cracked_ Baggins, if that's what you mean! Stop telling me to look at listen, Frodo! If I want to listen, I will. If I want to look, I will! But I don't. Not in the slightest. And by the looks of yourself... Merry's the one who's got _you_ in the palm of _his_ hand. You've never stood up for anything in your life. Why choose me to start with?"

"Because--- I love you. I love you _now_."

Sam sniffled deeply, wafting the air around him, and an ugly smile spread over his features.

"Uh... what is that—I smell bull shit."

"If you insist. I suppose I will leave, then, and you will stay, and be a sex slave to a thousand different—a new, revolting man each night, to keep from starving, because you aren't good for much else. At least I was a slave only to one. And each time they come to you at night, you will remember the chance for salvation that you missed... Yes, I suppose I _will_ go back--- but not to Merry! Oh, not to Merry! Never to Merry!"

"A slave is a slave no matter to whom or where. Come back when you realize that."

"Well, I chose to cease being one. You have no desire for that... Who is the weaker of us?"

Sam squared his shoulders and turned away to fumble in the drawer of the bedside table for a baggie and wrapper. Sprinkling a pinch of the grass into a square of paper that was not so different from parchment, he rolled it up, licked an edge, struck a match, and lit the end.

"Me. Cause I'm not crawlin' back to the only one I think who can save my hide. I'd rather make my own livin'." He took a drag. It was salvation, however temporary, from all the world's troubles, even better than closing his eyes. "It's a different kin' of pride, pleasing all of those men an' women. I doubt you know how to please even your one master."

Taking another puff, he let the sickly-sweet-smelling smoke snake and curl around him before blowing hard to drive it from his face. "You're too selfish."

The hair on the back of Frodo's neck bristled, but he pretended not to have heard.

"Pride. Indeed. Don't tell me you could not find a job as a farmhand. There is never a shortage of need for those. Allow yourself to be used... Pride indeed. You chose what was dirtiest, the lowest of the low. I would sooner die than 'fend for myself' the way you do."

"No one farms in this city. All the goods are imported. Besides. I'm 'too slow' and 'too little' to do the work of a farm hand. Don't you go thinkin' I didn't try."

"Then you're worthless. Sex is not a skill. Animals do it. Those customers of yours may as well go out back and fuck a pig... No difference."

"This comin' from a hobbit who's never had a job in his life?"

Things had reached a dead end, Frodo knew, and their exchange would be little more than crossfire of insults from that point on. He turned, therefore, and, with an almost violent gesture, pulled a handful of coins from the drawstring purse he had left among his other things, and hurled it in Sam's face – hard, like he had learned to do on the cricket field. His voice was vicious.

"How much?"

"You can't buy me."

"Others have. You've been nothing but bought and sold for the past half-year."

"Talk to Ned then. Mayhap he'll have a price for you." The sarcasm was ugly in Sam's voice.

"Thanks, but all I want is a fuck for the road."

"I thought you weren't much for sex."

"No. I'm not. But it seems to be the only thing you understand."

In truth, he had been bracing for something harsher - something along the lines of "it's only because you cannot get laid any other way," for that would have been the truth and Sam seemed to have developed a knack for imparting it in the vilest terms possible. It was often said that Frodo was beautiful, yes, but hopefuls had never exactly formed lines at his doorstep. That he could win Sam back in that way, too, seemed unlikely upon sober reflection, since to say that Frodo was particularly skilled in the arts of the flesh would have been an untruth. No, it had been a ridiculous thought from the start.

"Tell me how much."

"For the whole day? It's usually fifty for the whole night. But since its day time and it'll only be for one go, I'll give you a special price."

"What sort of price?"

"A promise. As soon as yer done, you must promise you'll leave and never come back."

"No."

"Then no fuck for the road. Not from this boy."

Frodo felt as if every bone in his body had snapped. He seized Sam by the shoulders, pushing him violently back against the door.

"Who _are_ you! Where have you come from and what have you done to _my Sam_!"

He slammed him against the door again, for good measure, and held him. But Sam was the stronger, and freed himself easily, pulling Frodo's hands off him and twisting them sharply.

"Do not assault me again. I am who you made me. I am the only me that could survive here."

He gave the wrists he was holding a second painful wrench, wondering whether to squeeze – for he could have, if he had _wanted_ – until the joints gave way under his fingers with a sickly crunch. But he changed his mind at the last moment, and pushed the wrists and their owner away toward the bed. It was not enough to make Frodo fall and for a moment he stood there, rubbing his carpals. When he raised his eyes, they shone.

"I will unmake you, then. I am going down the hall to Ned and giving him whatever he'll take for your sorry skin." Tossing his shoulders as if he had been the one assaulted, he took his purse and made for the door. "You would be wise to pack your things."

'Don't!' the other wanted to cry, but Frodo was already gone and probably would have showed no sign that he had heard even if Sam had.

He slumped down against the bed and reached for the pitcher, splashing water on his hair. He needed no mirror to know that he looked like a monster, and though there was no fight left in him, he though that at least on the way out he would put Frodo through as much embarrassment as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

"I think we both know that the name of the hobbit you sent to me last night isn't Hal."

Frodo was standing opposite the bed where Ned sat in his shirt-sleeves and stared up at the visitor with bleary eyes.

"If that's all ye's gots to say to me, kin' sir," he grumbled, "I don' see the poin' of wakin' in on me this early in the mornin' as if ye's got sort of senchashun ye's come to tell me. We don' exactly have the luxury of checkin' references here. As lon' as the lad does his job, we's got no inquiries to make." His face was a little gray, and he took a swig from a hip-flask, blinking. "Ye'll find that a hobbit who is who he says he is aroun' here is a mighty rare thing indeed. T'aint from a good past that most of us are runnin'."

Ned's bedroom was even smaller than Sam's, scarcely three paces across, which Frodo found odd, since Ned was the head among the night lads. But seniority and favor with Butterbur also meant that Ned no longer saw customers. Thus, he could have a much narrower bed.

"No matter. 'Hal,' as you call him, is still of particular interest to me."

Ned scratched his back and stood up, hoisting up his oilcloth breeches. "He's a good lad. Canna complain 'bout him. Brings in as good a profit as any."

"I'd like to buy him from you."

Glancing at the hobbit before him – for his words had interrupted him mid-swig and forced him to cough deliberately for at least half a minute – Ned found it hard to tell, even upon close inspection of the features, whether he was joking or not. He chose not to burst out laughing, however, and settled for straightening his shoulders in a defensive sort of mock-propriety.

"We're not runnin' no slave trade here, si'."

_Nonsense, you nothing _but_ peddle in flesh... _Frodo almost retorted.And that was when it hit him: the ploy that was even better than the plan of attack he had concocted while badgering groggy and scarcely-sentient bellboys for directions to their overseer's room. Best of all, it required very little truth-bending. Just a certain… Emphasis.

"Fair enough, but the fact remains that he is working here quite illegally – not only for the obvious reason of his age—"

"We don' ask no ages neither."

"…Fair enough, neither do _we_—" said Frodo, planting himself on the bed by Ned's side, for the other had sat down again and was feigning a very particular interest in filling his pipe with just the right measure of pipe weed, down to the blade, "But there is also the reason that he does, in fact, have a contract under my uncle in the Shire that has not yet run out."

"Finders keepers, losers weepers." Ned shrugged, and with an excruciatingly proper half-cough into his sleeve, took another drink.

Frodo wondered whether principled stubbornness ran in the veins of all rent boys, born or bred. But it had also not escaped his notice that Ned seemed to be looking everywhere but at him.

"—Not that his services are indis_pen_sable or anything of the sort… For I agree, though a good lad, he _is_ perfectly unremarkable. But it isn't _I, _you know, who's mostly had a hand in this, and indeed I would be lying if I said I cared a whit for politics – cannot _stand _them, in fact, nor should an honest businessman go mixing with politician-types--"

He had made sure to sit just a little too close to Ned – not close enough to make the move noticeably intrusive, but close enough such that his thigh had brushed against Ned's.

"But, you understand, the lord mayor has not been himself ever since—and it really is a bad business, it really is… A most grievous circumstance--"

Ned was evidently quite vexed that he was unable to extract the last two blades of grass from the bottom of his baggie. Pulling his own pouch from where it had been tucked into his belt, therefore, Frodo was quick to offer him some of his own. For an instant, Ned's piggish, darting eyes paused on his companion's face for the first time since the mention of a sale.

"Now, I understand it may be a difficult for you to accept any of the terms, however generous, that I may offer on my sender's behalf, for in letting Hal go you are not only letting _Hal_ go, but you are parting with all the profit he is likely to make for this inn for the rest of his time here…"

The older hobbit's gaze had grown a little clearer, and he wondered how he had not noticed just how fetching the lad seemed to be – wide-eyed and smooth-skinned, with such a pretty arch of the lip and strong, handsome cheekbones. It was almost difficult to believe that this boy, too, was a procurer – or being groomed to be one, for he had said he had an uncle. One would have to watch himself with this one; his sort could charm a fish right out of its fishbowl. Not that a tad of well-justified staring at a good looking young specimen was likely do much harm, but caution was key when one's duty was to drive a hard bargain.

What mystified him, however, was that he had been unable to even guess how much money he could reasonably assume this lad _had _in the first place. On the one hand, he seemed to wear a guise of nonchalant entitlement. But Frodo had also exchanged his shirt for one of plain muslin, and his breeches for canvas ones, and a quick eye soon noticed the less-than-perfect stitching. That the bellboys were in such a particularly somnambular state that morning thanks to a packet of dried mushrooms of a rare breed that they had finagled from a traveller who could not afford to pay the full price of his room, had proven a stroke of uncommonly good luck, even if it _had_ taken Frodo an inordinately long while to impart to them that it was _Ned_ that Frodo wanted to see, and not Ted, Maude, or Freddy.

"You couldn't affor' it," Ned sneered at last, almost a little too viciously.

He raised the flask to his lips, and swore upon finding it empty. Frodo was again ready, however, and handed him his own bottle of questionable-quality whiskey (or, rather, one belonging to the younger of the two bell-boys).

"So you agree in principle, and now we're just haggling over price."

"He couldna been happy if he'da run away." Ned shrugged, again in the adamantly-proper tone he knew how to put on so well whilst doing business. But he accepted the bottle, and drank with gusto.

"Romantic entanglement happens to the best of us." Frodo shrugged. "There was a lass, if I'm not mistaken… Now…"

Before the eyes of a consternated Ned, he drew a quill from behind his belt, with a bit of dry ink on the end, which he moistened with his tongue, working it around the tip with perhaps a tad more enthusiasm than was necessary.

"By my reckoning, the average working lad is sought-after by customers until he is forty. The same lad, we may assume, services - let us suppose a modest figure – three customers per night, with days off once a month." Having failed to extract a piece of paper from what had seemed like a magic belt prior to that moment, Frodo had risen from his seat and began scribbling figures on the whitewashed doorframe.

"Three-hundred and sixty less 12 is 348, times three, times – let us suppose, again a modest figure, that Hal is 18. Forty less 18 is 22; so, times 22… Three-hundred-forty-eight by 66 is, eight, four, four, eight, two, six, twenty… add that to… By 50… Yes, I believe that is the precise sum you can expect Hal to earn, and I can produce it for you in three days."

Ned was chewing his teeth, and doing his best to avoid looking at his visitor. Astonished more than a little by Frodo's speed at figuring and still more by the contours of his buttocks, he had overlooked the circumstance that his wall was being written on for a good minute-and-a-half. Once he had noticed, however, and was about to stand and protest, Frodo had already finished, and nothing could have prepared Ned for what he was about to see. For the fact of the matter was that Ned, however shrewd a businessman he fancied himself to be, aside from a vague remembrance of seeing long strings of numbers on a blackboard some decades ago, had never conceived that such sums even existed, much less changed hands.

"You… couldna…" He all but laughed.

"Three days. That is all I ask. You may keep this as a token of good faith."

And there was such a devil-may-care amiability about the lad, that Ned could not help but shake his head, and hold his hand out to accept the tiny watch of Dwarven make that lay in Frodo's palm. At any rate, he thought, there was some fun to be had in indulging a perfectly cracked hobbit, if that was, indeed, what the other happened to be.

----------------------

As Frodo's newest acquisition, Sam had decided to sit in the back of the cart with the wine barrels.

It was precisely three days later, for that was how long it had taken to appraise Frodo's dwarven-made watch, weigh the gold he had brought, and travel and fetch in the strictest secrecy, with all speed, and under cover of night the two or three more items from Bilbo's chest that would round out the offer.

Three days, too, were more than sufficient to let fly all manner of runours concerning the identity of the mysterious gentlehobbit staying in Butterbur's best quarters and the nature of the deal he may or may not have struck with Ned, who had spent the rest of the first day wearing a mixture of awe and a smirk, but altogether obstinately mum. Three days were also long enough to ascertain such vital details as a good dozen different times when "Mr. Fredro" was said to take his second breakfast, followed by a turn around the verandas. Depending on who you asked, the "gentlehobbit from Hardbottle" either had red hair and freckles, or green eyes and brown hair, or was "really a lass" on the run from an unwanted suitor.

It was no surprise, therefore, that the hour of his departure had also been divined, and an entourage sizable enough for a prince had filled the front porches to inspect the wagon on which the now-famous guest was supposed to leave.

A little rowdy and not a little chatty, munching on fish-and-chips out of papers and cracking sunflower seeds like so many fishwives; jostling, but not really in a malevolent way like so many fishwives, the Prancing Pony's denizens crowded their makeshift bleechers, and an excited murmur rose and fell. The gathering consisted of all manner of people, all in varying degrees of know - from the newest arrivals to the village gossips - and from time to time, someone would pipe up:

"What's going on? Is it a murder?"

"Quit yer nonsense, 'tis a kidnappin' as like as not, by the looks of it."

"No, _no_! I heard he owns half the Shire…"

"Who, the kidnapper?"

"No, the one that done had to pay the ransom for the lad, and from what I hear he ain't rich at all, seein' how he had to mortgage half his property to keep 'is name from bein' blacken'd…"

"Poppycock, I heard 'is uncle's rich as a troll…"

"Trolls aren't rich – you're thinkin' of dwarves…"

"…Golly, if only I could snag a man like that…"

There was talk, too, of a servant of Butterbur's being involved in the business, who some contended was a rentboy and still others vowed did not exist at all - just as there were some who swore that Mr. Torbins did not exist either, and that the whole thing was a hoax, but had shown up anyway for lack of any better amusement.

"_I_ heard he bought 'im," persisted I-heard-he-owns-half-the-shire.

"No _way_—tha's despicable!" retorted his neighbor. "Only _you _coulda up with somethin' like that! Besides, there's only paylasses; there's no such thing as a rentboy… No one's ever seen one, at any rate…"

In the days that had followed, Sam had grown increasingly surly. Shortly after the initial quarrel, Frodo had stopped in, and, looking a little shamefaced, informed him that it was done and that they were leaving next Monday, but until then he had things to do. Sam was washing his hair, and had not replied.

Since he was no longer sent any clients, he spent much of his time sleeping in his room, and pretended not to hear when Frodo did come in to check on him. At first he thought to run away again, but knowing of no place he could go beyond the Shire and Bree, he soon gave up the idea. So he was going back to where he had been branded a criminal, and suffer the shame of living as kept hobbit at Bag-End until Frodo grew tired of him.

He could not hate Frodo, of course, but sometimes the extent of the other hobbit's selfishness amazed him. It was as if Frodo refused to see that certain things, tragic though they seemed, were better left alone. That at times a good deed did more harm than good; that a good deed was only in the eye of the beholder. That sometimes a mistake is a mistake is a mistake… And yet he knew Frodo acted out of guilt, and this made his behaviour understandable, if not something he was ready to forgive.

And, of course, there was still the inconvenience of the trace – the shadow – of a feeling that still stirred in his wasteland of a soul every time Frodo came in in the evening and called his name, softly, to see if he was asleep. In vain, he would try each time to steel his heart against the occasion. It was tender torture to wait until the butterflies relented and a heaviness settled between his legs and in his breast, and all the while he would do his best to breathe evenly, so Frodo would think he had not heard. And it was his silly heart that went pitter-pat when the gentle lilt of Frodo's voice evoked images of the master's foot-hair - the liquid warmth of his skin - brushing up against his calf as they shared a bed… His silly heart, which he had bound up with steel hoops to keep it from breaking, but which strained against them now with all its might at the thought that after years of waiting Mr. Frodo would be his – and devil may care whether Sam was to be a kept hobbit or not. It was a primal, irrational thought. Such were thoughts that he had sworn never to allow himself again, for to think such things was to tread on ground that had long been laid bare. But sometimes, when he managed to think of only _that_ and nothing else, he though he could almost imagine himself being happy.

-----------------

His hair had begun to curl again, and was harder to use as a veil. He kept his head low as he walked behind his master through a gauntlet of stares. He had thought that as a rentboy he had grown used to humiliation, but at that moment he desperately longed for the plaster-like whiteness that once hid his cheeks.

Some pitying, some derisive, but mostly just curious, dozens of eyes bored into his back, for most had never really seen a rent boy.

By the time he had reached his seat, he wished the cart were headed to the gallows.

"You're sitting in back?"

Sam raised his eyes and saw Frodo standing above him, dressed in a long travelling cape. His expression was unreadable; all Bagginses knew how to put on an air of polite matter-of-factness when they had a purpose to attend to. It was difficult to tell whether what he had said was a question or an affirmation, but Sam thought he could detect a hint of sorrow, as if Frodo was saying, 'I knew it would be this way.'

But before Sam had a chance to respond, there was a billow of a cape, and Frodo had touched his hand, drawing his thumb briefly across Sam's. And before Sam's eyes had a chance to brim with tears at the touch, Frodo had turned on his heel, and was climbing up to sit beside the driver. For his thoughts were already rushing ahead to the Shire - he knew that while reverse psychology and large sums of money were enough to wrap an avaricious and somewhat cowardly hobbit like Ned around his little finger, getting rid of Merry would be quite a different matter.


	4. Chapter 4

Marigold had been first to spy the cart coming round the bend, and dropped her washing to come running.

An open, affectionate girl of the conventional hobbit type, with blond hair and brown eyes, she was a female edition of Sam before misfortune befell him.

"Oh, Mr. Frodo, knew you'd find him… I knew you'd bring him back… Sam--" She seized his arm, and the tears in her throat kept her from saying much more.

Sam cupped his hand around her chin, tracing the contour of her face. He brushed soft curls from her forehead; she was as he remembered her, and his eyes filled with tears. He made haste to hide his face.

"Find him?" Frodo chuckled, descending from the driver's seat and thanking the farmer who had driven them. "Find him I did, but how in the Shire did you come to assume that that had been my purpose?"

Mari smiled a smile that was peculiar to all Gamgees, one that lingered in her eyes longer than it did on her lips.

"I knew you'd stand up to Mr. Merry one of these days. It wasn't just, what he'd had them do to Sam – and you're the least stupid of us to go along with something like that... Gaffer's still stewing, of course, but he's a stubborn one; he'll come around…"

-----------------

"Why, hello, my pretty."

Merry was seated before the fire in the receiving room, and wore Bilbo's best dressing gown - the one with flowered lappets and embroidered cuffs. A bottle of Old Winyard and a pipe lay within close reach upon the table.

"Fancy runnin' away like that, my Fro. You scared me to death, kitten."

Frodo stiffened. Merry certainly did not look vexed, or even worried. Not in the least. In fact, he was the picture of equanimity.

"I left a note," he said coldly. "I was to settle a dispute between some tenants."

"A'right… Just this once, I suppose you can be forgiven."

Lazily, he poured himself another half-glass of wine, but the fact that there was something unsettlingly different about the hobbit before him had not escaped his notice. It was as if he had reached out to touch him, and where he expected to find relenting fearfulness, he felt bristles.

He forced an unassuming air.

"Come here, squirrel. You're so lovely and tempting when you put on that steely saintliness – like a ver'table born-again virgin fresh out of a brothel. Makes me hot—you ought to do it more often…" _Might compensate for how useless you are in bed, anyway._

When Frodo had not moved, he got up, taking him firmly and none-too-gently by both shoulders, and pulled him into his lap. He suckled hard against the pale neck.

"Cummon, moan for me, lovebird… This is getting borin'."

Frodo drew breath. Now or never, he thought. Gingerly, he extricated himself from the other hobbit's clasp.

"Merry, I don't think this is working."

-------------------

Sam had refused to enter Bag-End so long as Merry was inside.

The shadows cast by the apple-trees had lengthened, dusk had washed everything in blue. Lights flickered on and then off in smial after smial, and still brother and sister sat on the front steps and waited.

The first time he had looked into her eyes, Sam had hidden his face, for it was like looking into a living mirror. Her eyes were the precise hue of black-eyed Susans and indeed _too much_ like what he remembered them to be, for in those eyes he saw all he had lost - what lay trampled into the floorboards of a sleazy hotel room rented by the hour, unshriven and unwept. And suddenly he was again ashamed of sitting beside her, for she was untouched, and still so beautiful.

At around three bells past midnight, a large half-empty crate of Old Toby went sailing though one of the pantry windows. Sam started like one possessed, and in vain did Mari try to hold him back.

Just before she landed in the hall where Sam had shaken her off, she heard his feral snarl, and the sound of a door being thrown open.

"DON'T YOU TOUCH 'IM! DON'T YOU LAY A FUCKIN' FINGER ON HIM, YOU— WRETCHED—"

"Oh. I see how it is."

Merry's voice was venomously cold as he looked from Sam to the hobbit before him, who sat slumped against a wall, his hand covering his eyes and a cruel red palm-mark across his temple and cheek.

Frodo was crying like very young children cry after a thrashing, noiselessly and pitifully. That was the last thing Sam saw before everything went red, and after that he could not remember anything more.

--------------------

"Sam, it's only a broken bone. They've set it; all should be well."

Distraught, and with wild eyes, Sam sat at the side of the bed and stared straight in front of him. A pale hand lay motionless in his, as if moulded out of wax. It was a slender, boyish hand, with the long, thin fingers of the burglar-Bagginses curling slightly, and fingernails so short it hurt to look at them, and Sam traced the folds in the palm again and again with the index finger of his free hand. His look was pitiful; one would have thought he had grown obsessed over that hand – that it was the only thing left to him in the world.

The surgeon had come and gone, and where the hand ended the little blue rivers of veins disappeared under a fresh, white cast. Her hair a disheveled aureole around her face, Mari stooped over a tub, making a cold compress.

"Sam…"

"—Im-mana kill 'im."

"Sam."

"Im-mana—"

"Let the dead bury the dead." He winced as Marigold placed a warm rag over the side of his face. "… They sure know how to hit in Buckland—I think they pull all Brandybucks aside when they're in their tweens, and show them. Or maybe it's in the blood." He tried to smile, like he often did, with half his mouth. His cheeks were a trifle pale, and he looked green around the gills, despite two shots of eighty-proof for pain. _Of course, being half-Brandybuck himself hadn't helped_, he wanted to add, but thought better of it when the feeble attempt to lighten the mood had fallen flat. "Nobody's dead, of course. But it's time this was put to an end."

Sam nodded, slowly. The horror still lay etched across his features, as if they were those of one condemned for the gallows. Hair a mess and temples streaked with sweat, he looked worse than men do during a wife's labor. Looking at him, Frodo was thankful that Mari had been close by, for he was almost sure that if left alone Sam would have done himself a harm.

"You-you're still defendin' him," he finally managed. His voice had no strength left for bitterness, however.

Marigold looked up from the tea things she had brought in and was setting out on the bedside table. It was the first time Sam had spoken since he had thrown her down.

"Sam."

"Don't 'Sam' me, Frodo! Half your face is swollen, your bone was jus' about sticking out of the flesh of your arm and you're STILL DEFENDIN' HIM—"

"I said a lot of things I didn't mean."

But speaking, and raising his voice in particular, had been a mistake – Sam had always felt the coming of tears in his chin, and by that time it had visibly begun to trembled. He could not cry in front of Frodo; he wouldn't, but his legs buckled as he made a move to stand, and saw his sister out of the corner of his eye, moving shadow-like to stand and block the door with her body. There really was no fight left in him – not after that day, and it was only in vain that he tried to steel himself, propping up his broken confidence with a façade of false indifference. He loved—he loved this infuriating, this mad, this wretched, this cracked Baggins who, in spirit or in person, would refuse to let him be until the end of his days.

"Or I—I suppose you're going to tell me that that bludgeon's put you out of your head completely--" Sinking to his knees, he let his head fall, and for a long moment a grimace twisted his face as he pressed his cheek harder and harder against the covers. He ground his teeth, and it felt like the bones of his face would give way; his free hand balled into the covers, and the other squeezed what seemed like the life out of the hand he had been holding.

"I don' wan' it to be put to an end, Frodo… I mean—M-mister…" He took a breath—another mistake. "I wanna—I wan' to wring his neck—"

His strength had given out; the floodgates had opened. His shoulders shook, and he now wept, piteously yet unapologetically, no longer caring for Frodo's presence or the world's, wanting only to weep a deluge until he had wept out all the dirt and sin and had not the strength to draw breath.

Frodo shifted, but immediately doubled back in pain. Through the covers that Marigold had placed around him, he could feel Sam's forehead pressed against his thigh, but he wanted to hold him... He felt an overwhelming desire to press Sam's tear-stained face against the crook of his neck and shoulder, and kiss one long trail of soft kisses from the place where his neck-vein pulsed, to the curve of his jaw, until he had kissed the salt from his eyes and hushed the quivering lips with his own.

Mari came over, quietly, and squeezed Frodo's hand. She touched Sam's shoulders, and gently bade him rise, helping him to lie down alongside his master. He shivered, still, and she brought another quilt from the closet to cover him along with Frodo, tucking it around them both. She then retired to sleep in the armchair in the receiving room, where she would be when they both woke up in the morning.

A timid hand against Sam's skin brought on another volley of tears. When he though he could speak again, he whispered. His breathing was raspy.

"Frodo. I just want to know… Did he… ever… before…"

"No… Sam—that wasn't why."

But familiar fingers against his lips had hushed him.

------------------

For the whole of the following week, Sam had a fever, but refused to leave his master's side.

The intimacy of the first night, however, was not repeated. Once the delirium had passed and he was strong enough to stand, Sam lapsed into a routine of serving with his eyes down, and it was this inertness on his part, the adamant unresponsiveness of his hand when he reached out to touch it and the quiet, dogged refusal to meet his eyes that caused Frodo an almost physical pain.

A week stretched into three, and then into a month; the linden trees outside Bag-end had blossomed and scattered their flowers across the lawns. But even with his illness safely behind him and Frodo's arm on the mend, Sam had not moved back to live at Bagshot Row, despite Marigold's efforts as go-between for him and his gaffer, and her earnest assurance that the old Gamgee was beginning to relent.

Merry had removed to Buckland soon after the incident, and pains were taken to hush up what had happened. Mari had assiduously circulated the rumour that something in a hedge had startled Frodo's pony on the night of his return, and it had carried him through some brambles, causing him to fall out of his saddle. As to the nature of Sam's occupation in Bree, people were free to guess, but for lack of any conclusive information and the general mistrust toward news from the outside, the topic in due course became a stale one among the sewing circles and bars of Hobbiton. Thus, it was Sam's own lingering shame and resentment at having been _rescued_ that kept him a recluse, along with a reluctance to answer questions.

Yet it was feeling of indebtedness, too, that gave rise to a pained, desperate sort of veneration for Frodo on Sam's part. After Merry's violence had reduced the flesh, every inch of which had prior to then been the hallowed stuff of dreams, to something so impossibly physical – to blood, and a forearm bent at a grotesque angle as if Frodo had putty where none was supposed to be - something had broken inside Sam. It was the very same something that had begun to splinter that morning in his room at the Prancing Pony, when he had almost wanted to try and break Frodo's wrists. It evoked a heart wrenching consciousness of the fragility, the transience of what he had hitherto known to be Frodo, and an equally heartrending protective instinct. And that was why he feared to raise his eyes anymore, for he had inadvertently allowed Frodo to become the angel-redeemer whose hands he only wanted to hold against his cheek and weep and cry, "mama!" and yet feared to touch, for Frodo was so good, so good to him...

He remained loyal to all his household duties, therefore, but tried to avoid any task that involved touching his master, for he dreaded the restless fluttering that rose in his poor, put-upon, besotted heart. For it was indeed a cruel joke, all that had happened to him. If only he had no heart! And really, he had thought he had smothered the life of it long ago. It was almost unfair.

--------------------

It was in the evening, however, and since Frodo's cast could not bear wetting, Sam had been helping with the bathing. He had averted his eyes under the pretext of not affronting the master's dignity when Frodo was settling into the tub, but after that it seemed like it was all he could do to keep his hand steady while pouring. The pure, white lines of milky hobbit flesh, and the strawberry-shaped birthmark just above the left shoulder blade, and the sighs from those half-open lips (neither thin nor thick, but perfectly formed) as warm water went trickling down the slope of a shoulder all made him feel as if Frodo were touching him with his hands and his mouth in places he forgot existed.

Sam swallowed, the muscles of his neck tensing, and Frodo had half a mind to ask him to lather his back, but thought better of it, sensing his uneasiness.

"That'll do, I think." He smiled warmly, turning, but the corners of his mouth twitched with an almost physical pain as Sam withdrew his hands hastily, as if his master had reprimanded him for taking a liberty. "No, it's alright… I just thought I should be getting to bed…. Thank you," he added, after a pause. Hiding the regret in his voice was tougher, however.

Sam stood up, and held out Frodo's bathrobe, draping a towel over his arm.

Within a quarter of an hour, Frodo was seated before the fire, wrapped in the soft knit bathrobe, his hair still dripping. Sam had entered, placing a tea tray on the table. Outside, a mournful rain drummed against the windowpane.

"Stay a while."

With a curt nod, Sam straightened his shoulders, and stood beside the table. Somewhere in the depths of the flame, a twig snapped and there was a brief shower of sparks.

Framed by dark curls, Frodo's skin was an olive tone in the dark, and in those moments, Sam thought, his face had a remarkable sort of simplicity about it, like that of a sweet hobbit lass.

"Come here. I want to have a look at you."

Sam took a step. Wary, for all the Shire like a wild beast in need of taming, Frodo thought.

"Your eyes."

For, in truth, he could not remember the last time he had seen Sam's eyes, and could not have recalled their colour. Even in the days when Sam's eyes met his freely (and Frodo remembered well the crow's feet that were already beginning to form in their corners) their colour had always remained elusive, and that was why Frodo had always loved them. For all that was said around Hobbiton of just how fine Frodo's own eyes were, they had always been blue and only blue, while Sam's eyes would seem by turns a mossy grey, or a mellow sort of brown with traces of gold, like sand at the bottom of a river.

"Please."

The shutters groaned and rattled. But it was not only because he thought he would not mind the rainy evening if another were curled beside him, that he asked, with heated gaze, what he could not put into words.

Nor would he mind, of course, thoughts of the bitter mist that would surely descend from the hilltops come morning, sending chills up his spine, if another were with him, and to lay in bed with Sam, caressing and kissing his body would be nothing short of heavenly – of that he was certain. Dark eyes digging circles deep into his soul; strong muscles contracting beneath his touch, eager and wanting. Sam would have surely taught him all the right ways of making love, and shown him all the passion and tenderness within a single fingertip. Open mouths, tongues hungry to explore one another's skin. Soft pillows to rest their heads on; a wide bed to sprawl across; Sam's deep, gentle voice, serenading him as he curled across his lover's chest, head resting atop a throbbing heart. Giggles and smiles, soft and sweet; twirling silky strands of hair the color of new honey around his fingers. Smoothing his hands across sun-browned skin, noses nuzzling beneath the covers. To be seduced, every inch of him. To lay with Sam, bodies intertwined, flames curling down to warm embers within them. It would be pleasure beyond that of any dream - yes.

But it was because he wanted to be certain that Sam wanted it too that he asked, and waited, breathless, for an answer.

Sam raised his eyes. They brimmed. He fell to his knees, and buried his face in Frodo's lap, and it seemed that another's lips were suddenly kissing the tops of his thighs where the bathrobe fell open.

"Sam, Sam… Don't cry, you'll get sick again…" A gentle hand came to rest on his head amid his curls, just touching the soft spot behind his ear. He suppressed a smile. "We've both been so stubborn..."

"I know, Mr. Frodo… I know. I jus' can' help it… I'm jus' so—"

"You're ashamed at having been rescued. I know. You are afraid because I am a part of your life you thought you'd left behind long ago and don't want to revisit. Because it is tied to too many bad things. Don't be."

Sam raised his eyes, and the hand cupped his chin, tracing the line of his jaw with a thumb, stopping the fresh desire to cry that scrunched up his face again. His master's velvet eyes were gentle, and seemed darker than he knew them to be – a soft, caressing gaze from within a nest of eyelashes. Inviting him in. Until the end of his days, Frodo would always look at Sam this way, and it felt as if all of Sam's thoughts suddenly lay bare, yet he was unashamed. _Don't be _– Frodo had said, and suddenly all was well…. It was little wonder that that hobbit was so well-loved by all, Sam thought. Stubborn, yes, but he saw hope in the unlikeliest of places.

"Oh, Mr. Frodo, me dear… Me dear…" He kissed the top of a knee one last time, pale and round like the curve of a moon peeking out from behind a hilltop. Perhaps it would always be his master's fondest calling in life, to raise things from the ashes – he thought – and to rescue even those who did not want it, for good or for ill. And Sam realized, too, that all along, for good or for ill, he was a fool to think he was not mated in his heart to Frodo, or that his will had ever really been his own. Nor did he want it to be, he thought – and put his one arm around his master's shoulders (very quickly, for it was result of a rush of blood to the head) and his other under his knees, and carried him to off bed like a bride.

"I'm not very good at it, just so you know," Frodo whispered as he set him down.

"You jus' need to try it with someone you care for." Sam smiled fondly, planting a kiss on a high cheekbone as he came to lay by his master's side. It was amusing, he thought, how much they already looked like a family, laying in bed side by side, but not touching, and Sam undoing his buttons as if it was a perfectly routine thing to do.

Frodo lay where he was, smiling, a little ways away, and a little shame-faced. His knees were slightly bent and parted and welcoming, though it seemed he only half-knew it. The robe was too large for him, having once belonged to Bilbo, and was roomy around the shoulders, exposing a neck, shoulders, and a sliver of chest and belly that ended in a bush of dark curls. And all of it seemed to glow from within with a fresh softness both virginal and yet begging to be tickled and teased with a tip of a tongue – for starters. He smelled lovely, too, of the bath chamber and all manner of clean things. It made Sam swallow, again, and turn his hips away as he fiddled with their buttons, to hide the swelling that descended from just under his ribs into his trousers. He giggled, and was happy to see that the hooded velvet eyes returned the smile from the shadows.

Through with unbuttoning his shirt, he got rid of it, carefully, folding it at the foot of the bed, and what seemed like exposing a treasure trove of golden down. Frodo licked his lips and looked down, coloring a little. The truth was, despite the tenderness he felt for Sam, seeing him disrobe so methodically was strange – though not in an unpleasant way.

He reached out a hand, running it over the down covering Sam's chest, down to where it thinned into a thin golden thread down his belly.

"You're soft."

"Y'think so?" A furtive, very Sam-like smile spread over his features. That feeling, of Frodo's hand just-touching his skin… It was that same occasional subtlety of glance and word that had long ago lent Frodo the keys to a young Samwise's heart, until, one day, without making any sort of fuss about it, he finally settled there to stay. Sam took the hand in his and kissed it, one knuckle at a time. "_You're_ lovely. Sometimes I wonder if you're real."

Frodo smiled, and for an instant his look was boyish. "Sometimes I wonder the same thing about you. I suppose that's what happens when you live so as we did, keeping secrets…"

He stared into the fire. "I suppose I really I _don't_ know much about you, except that your hands make things grow, and that there isn't anyone else in the Shire who cares for me more… Besides Bilbo, of course." He chuckled, ruefully. "But you know Bilbo…"

"'Cept I stayed where Bilbo left…"

"That's right."

Laughing quietly, he rolled over on his side, and took Frodo affectionately by the shoulders, burying his nose into the space between his shoulder and neck, such that his cheek rested on the the slight arch of the clavicle – "Frodo, tell me somethin'... When you took me from Ned, what price did you give him?"

"Oh… That… Well… I suppose, not that _terribly_ much—just a lifetime of servitude in exchange—ah--!" For Sam had taken advantage of his momentary hesitation, and bit him playfully where a vein fluttered just under the surface of the skin.

"Love me for lovin' you? What can I say – 's a fair trade…" His lips trailed down the side of Frodo's neck, lips pulsing against the skin so lightly that the hobbit could only just feel them, yet moist enough to leave a trail – down the middle of his chest, and lower, where Sam's tongue momentarily paused to fuck his navel…

"Though—jus' so you know… Lifetime of servitude indeed – don't buy it for a second. But no matter… I'll try n' be a _good_ slave… Show you what I can do…"

The banter, however, struck a chord Frodo did not want to touch – not right then. Sam's lips were grazing just above where his bush ended, sending tittilating thrills up his spine, but he sat up, propping himself on one elbow.

"Sam… Wait… I—I need to know…" _That it's not out of guilt alone, or lust alone, that you…_ "Just what sorts of things _do_ you do, exactly?"

"Oh, everythin'. But I don't kiss on the mouth."

And with the same breath, he swept up Frodo's lips in his, forcing them open before the other hobbit had a chance to as much as gasp. Wrapping his arms around to caress the slender back, shoulders, and neck where it was covered with soft down, he smiled into the kiss, for the gentle bow of Frodo's lips felt even more shapely under his own than he had imagined. Frodo tasted sweet, too – of that morning's blackberry pie, and the way the ends of pipeweed pipes usually tasted when you picked them up and gave them two or three little kisses.

From that moment on nothing could have felt more natural than Frodo's knees parting to accommodate his lover between them. For the first time in his life, he felt the presence of another near him was not an unwelcome one, and the feeling grew as the night wore on, until it became an overwhelming bliss almost too strong to bear.

Waves of pleasure washed over him, again and again, and he rode each one bravely, though each time it seemed just a shade short of too much to hold his love within him, and it made him want to weep. "How long have you loved me, Sam – how long?" were his breathless cries, again and again, but each time Sam withheld answer, prolonging their bliss together just a little bit longer.

Later, when Frodo had covered Sam's belly in sticky fluid, and Sam had striped his insides with his, they lay for a long time touching. He felt the wet he had left between Sam's legs and between their bellies, and sniffed it.

And laughed, and cried, and touched it to his lips and then to Sam's.


End file.
